It hovered in silence, awaiting its next instruction. Clothed in dust, its station was elegantly solitaire.
His eyes widened as he came closer. Tiptoeing he could almost read its tattoo.
A faint whisp detracted him. His eyes darted to his left, into the deep blue of early morning’s light. He was alone.
“Good morning, son.”
He spun to his right, almost bumping into his Father. “I didn’t touch it!” he blurted. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That is often the case for those Who walk as Shadows.”
Settled into his khu-bhan, he continued, “She is intriguing, is she not?”
“Father, why do you keep her there?”
“It keeps afresh the memory of the Time of Na-roushe, his eyes wide open.”
The Early Fire was at half and Morning’s First had entered.
“Father, what are those words on its blade?”
Eyes still, his voice as the mountains, he said
.
“Draw me not without Cause. Sheath me not without Honor.”
.
